'Salt for the flavor, light to guide the way.'
Christ said it all, but I am sick of Him,
tied of my riffs off His melodies.
I don't dispute His authenticity,
His presence here this morning as I write
but I have to find my own light and salt.
They stare out from Rembrandt's 'Last Self-Portrait.'

His children, wife, both mistresses, have died
by the moment these eyes fix on our own.
And that light will not go away, will it?
I close the book, I turn my head. Light's here.
Could this be Christ? Maybe. Maybe not.

Still, this is the way the dead enter us—